Hey, you, Son of a FOB
This song’s for you while we steal your job.
This country’s adopted son
Outwardly your culture you may shun,
But secretly you like Tikka Masala
And movies of Rani and Aishwarya
You grew up twirling your Dad’s chest hair
And now you leave him in Old Age Care,
Shaving your own chest
With Silicon in your breast.
You might as well wear bangles
And cut off the peanut that dangles
Between your shaved silky legs
And start laying eggs.
Goras call you “Washer”
Desis call you “Wiper”
Even in the bathroom you are confused
Coz when you asked for a brain, even God refused.
You suck at cricket and baseball too
About business you don’t have a clue.
You are a shame to Genetic Code
As your parent’s tricks, you couldn’t download.
Oh what a waste of the Desi mind
Coz of all of you ABCD kind.
Confused you will always be
And never can draw your Family Tree.